Call of the Tar Side

I admit it. I’m a roadie bigot. In the world according to Al, all those in baggy shorts playing chicken with the trees are the good guys, while the whippet stiffbacks imprisoned in their tarmac corridor are Beelzebub in Lycra. Put it another way, given the choice between participating in the lycra sandwich that is appropriately named the ‘chain gang’ or repeatedly slamming my privates in desk drawer, then it’d be that bastion of office equipment for me every time.

At this point I would like to present my factual case validating these wild slanders and outrageous stereotypes. I’d like to but I can’t. There is no justifiable reason to be nasty to or about our road going brethren. Except they always look and sound so miserable. An illustrative example beckons I think: Lance Armstrong “Pain is just fear leaving the body”, Ned Overend: “Riding mountain bikes, at the end of the day, is just about having fun with your friends”. That’s Ned “the lung” Overend we’re talking about here. Ask any MTB singlespeeder, assuming they are not too stoned to answer, what’s the best thing about mountain biking, and the response will contain the following words “beer, real, man”. Try it, works every time - I rest my case. We’re the free love, free thinking, free beer (in a perfect world) hippie throwbacks and they’re a bank clerk mincing about in spandex, sporting a serious haircut.

And that should be that. The road is a necessary evil for linking singletrack and a pathway to the pub. Bikes are for off the road, cars are for on the road. Except I’ve felt the call of the tar-side. You see, Mountain Biking in the winter can be a trial. Oh sure, you get those bluebird days with frozen trails under crystal blue skies. But you also get a lot more of those hub deep mud, grinding transmission days under leaden clouds spitefully spitting stinging rain. A ‘ride’ now includes the obligatory rediscovery of the bike under its winter mudpack, the replacement of whichever component has died in the cold murky battlefield, where transmission has the lifespan of a wine gum, and a cleaning regime for your clothes that requires you change the house carpets twice a season. There are those who claim to enjoy the winter while the remainder, or should I say the sane portion, of our little community takes a hopeful breath every morning praying for the sense of a spring breeze.

I was safe though. I didn’t have a road bike. But an agent of the darkside planted one in my barn and although unloved through the onset of winter, one depressingly dreary ride suddenly propelled it to the fore. What the hell I thought. I’ll give it a go, I’m going to hate it and even if I don’t, I can give it up. Anytime I like. The last time I’d ridden a road bike they were called ‘racers’, 10 speed spindly frames made by Raleigh and Dawes. Every Christmas morning saw young lads wobble out onto the road with nothing more than youthful immortality to protect them. Halcyon days although the bikes were just wheeled freedom, the brand as unimportant as the specification. It was our way of getting away. Mine died during a quarry jumping session but by then mopeds and girls were way cooler if slightly less obtainable, so I never bothered to replace it.

In the intervening twenty years, things have moved on a little. This was a surprise because whereas Mountain Bikes are on the bleeding edge of design in terms of frame materials, suspension and brakes, road bikes look exactly the same as they did once they’d ditched the penny farthing. The evolution of the bike shows the MTB as having exploded into many different species, some thankfully extinct, whereas the sloth like road bike appears to have developed, er, indexing. Okay, I’m being facetious but it still looked like my racer, dropped bars, small cogs and three chainrings. Although 100 psi in the tyres was something new as were the shifting levers which someone had cunningly hidden in the brakes. Took me a while to work that one out.

My friend Andy also swings both ways and it was with a shock that I realised my old pal had dispensed with all things baggy instead turning his body into a mobile sponsors billboard. All he was lacking was a “Golf Sale Here Today” sign. I, on the other hand was fully MTB’d up, camelback, helmet with peak, mud resistant jacket and carrying the obligatory four tubes, full toolkit, two chocolate bars and money for beer. In spite of being inappropriately trousered and riding like a man searching for the other 10 inches of bar, I think I pulled if off pretty well. Except all the other roadies waved at Andy and sneered at me. No change there then.

First things first. It’s not as easy as you think its going to be. The facts are all around you, skinny tyres, no heavy suspension, nothing overbuilt to withstand being bounced around in every direction at 30 mph. And yet climbing the first hill in a ring I’d named “dinner plate for 2”, things were not going well. Except for Andy, who was going very well; so much so I’d almost lost sight of him before rounding the last bend of the hill and pausing for breath. No such luck, apparently roadies don’t do that, it’s bad for the statistics. So off we went again in our mini pelaton, driving onwards into a 40 MPH headwind enlivened further by my ham fisted attempts at changing gear, which were launching me into the middle of the road. Many times I cheered as fat boy dinner plate was finally engaged before that cheer turned to terror as we reeled wide eyed into the face of oncoming traffic. Everything is so narrow, tyres, tubes and bars that a single wrench of the brake levers expedites an appointment with either Mr. Ditch or Mr. Other side of the road. Eventually I gave up and decided to use my super mountain bike fitness to grind up the climbs out of the saddle. Ha ha, yeah right, 30 seconds of that and we’re back into ditch/oncoming car territory as muscles unused to roadie cadence mocked me into submission.

Still when you do get a gurn on, the bike leaps forward like a badger with its arse on fire (I know, but I was younger and we were just exploring and anyway they never actually arrested us for it). Talk about direct, it’s as if your legs are directly connected to the rear axle, and when the speed builds, you just go with it harder and harder until you’ve beat the hill or you’re having a little lie down in the verge. Until the first corner that is. I love swoopy singletrack and like to think that I’m mildly accomplished when faced with sensuous curves sweeping between trees. So smooth, safe tarmac roads should be simple – yes? No. Not at all – as Andy drifted to the white line carving a perfect apex before sprinting off into the distance (again), I wobbled round in the manner of a Roman portaging a slab or marble from a quarry.

Things improved as the ride progressed and so long as your mental blindness over tyre width remains intact, it’s actually quite a lot of fun. Although I’m yet to be convinced about those narrow bars. Aerodynamically efficient I’ll grant you, but bloody useless for the genus ‘mountain biker’ who’s used to hauling on a 26 incher if you get my drift. As for hand position, well that was shrouded in mystery the entire ride with each change bring with it its own brand of terror. I can brake but I can’t turn. I can turn but I can’t see.

Anyway after an hour or so, we climb the final hill to our appointed rest stop and I’m learning now. Out of the saddle, let the bike move below you and fire up your competitive gland even though you know you’re going to lose. You just can’t fight it on a road bike and despite all my misgivings, I’m not actually hating it. There isn’t the rush you get from blasting singletrack or nailing something technical but a certain sense of satisfaction started to bloom from the seed of all things roadie. Odd.

We stopped at roadie central. I did my best to look credible but on the bike, I’m a complete novice and off it, I’ve no idea about anything. What kind of bike is it? Er, dunno. What's the groupset? (Points vaguely). What ratios are you running? Some.

I found myself explaining that it all worked really well together so why would I want to spend any more. Andy looked shocked. He’s seen me racked with indecision of whether it’s okay to slum it with an XT mech. You see roadies are like that too – I never knew that. They talk in terms of lightness, longevity and loveliness. Except a bike should last ten years because they evolve at the pace of crocodiles. The crux of my argument was it’s just a bloody bike, get on and ride it, you don’t need to spend money on something so simple. That’s marketing nonsense and by being taken in, you’re just feeding someone else's green eyed monster. Which is exactly the same argument my wife has with me. As I said, odd.

Back on the bike, I began to consider how dangerous these things really are. Firstly, the brakes don’t work. Merely accoutrements on the bar. From 185mm disks to side pull rubber blocks made out of old Russian tractor tyres. Welcome to roadie-ville where the local time is 1981. I couldn’t brake and turn at the same time anyway so eventually I just gave up trying and gripped the saddle tight with my arse instead. I’d say that was about as effective as the brakes. Everything you do on a road bike is on the critical path to hospital – changing gear, overtaking parked cars, turning, standing up, trying to find the brake levers, the list goes on. How I ever made it past puberty is a mystery.

But now we’re on the home stretch, I know it’s five miles to the place where bacon sandwiches await and the wind is behind us at last. Out of the last village and I’m a bus chasing monster. Engage dinner plate, narrowly miss family walking dog on the far side of the road and get a wriggle on. Because there is nothing technical, it’s just a test against your own strength and stamina. There’s nowhere to hide on a road bike as skill comes a poor second, at this level, to effort and lung capacity. But it’s still addictive with mobile chicanes disguised as other cyclists being dispatched but without the breath to say ‘hi’. Hills are almost welcomed as monuments to your climbing ability and then you hunker down on the straights to preserve precious momentum. It hurts way more than the mountain bike but I can’t stop pushing on until the final junction where I lie spent over the bars waiting for the spots to fade. It’s scary, my legs are jelly and I’m hyperventilating. Somehow, I’ve beaten (yes that’s the word in roadie terms) Andy for this last stretch although he’s probably just bored of me slipstreaming him for the last thirty miles. I still milked it for all it was worth though.

Mountain biking doesn’t have the same defined end as a roadie ride. You still have a cleaning and lubing regime that can take you though the night hours and that’s before you’re even allowed back inside. This time, it’s bike in the barn and Al in the shower, before a well earned bacon butty and tea. TEA, TEA? Yes, beer is for the bad mountain bike boys as there is something a bit too nice about road cycling, you postpone alcohol for a nice cup of char.

So was it fun? No, not really. Satisfying, different and not truly terrible. Just because it’s not my gig doesn’t make it a bad thing though. And if this weather continues to deposit its merciless packages of showers through April, it’ll be my medium of choice. And I found something out as well - mountain bikers don’t die, they just become roadies as lots of senior gents blasted past me with a cheery hello as I battled wearily up some hill or other. But for me, it’s the difference between creosoting your shed to stop the rain getting in against painting for the pleasure of painting and to hell with the final result.

Cycling is a broad church. We all go round in circles, some in the woods, some on the tarmac. We’re all doing something that at least partially defines us and provides endless excuses not to conform. We’re all finding ways of sticking two fingers up at our regulated society and so pretending to be different.

But mountain biking is better. Having tried the tar side, I still have no proof or compelling arguments as to why that is. It just is. Alright?

Alex Leigh - April 2004